The world trembled as silence settled after the initial clash. Smoke and dust hung thick, yet even through the haze, the twelve could feel the pulse of the Outer God—cold, infinite, and oppressive.
Lucien's chest heaved as the White stirred within him. At first, it was a faint hum, almost like a heartbeat. Then it roared, spreading through his veins, filling him with a sensation he could only describe as… eternity itself.
Kairo, Ashveil, Zarynth, Veythar, Caelthorn, and the mirrored six felt the resonance too. The White's power flowed through each of them—not fully, not yet—but enough to awaken latent potential they had only glimpsed before.
Seliora's threads glimmered first, weaving themselves automatically to defend and stabilize the team. Light shimmered across the battlefield as she unconsciously formed constructs capable of holding back the Outer God's presence.
Kairo's afterimages flickered into existence, moving independently to intercept attacks before he even thought of them. Time snapped around him in localized pockets, creating zones where the Outer God's attacks slowed imperceptibly.
Ashveil's shadows no longer followed commands—they acted with instinct. They tore through rubble and enemy constructs on their own, bending to his will without effort.
Zarynth's chaos void flared unpredictably, but now it had a rhythm—random yet precise, destructive yet controlled. He grinned, seeing that the void itself seemed to guide him.
Veythar bent space effortlessly, creating rifts and pathways through which the others could strike from impossible angles. Caelthorn's gravity roared, shaping terrain and enemies alike, while Morwyn amplified his control, creating zones of crushing pressure that the Outer God could not ignore.
Iralith's psychic resonance threaded through the battlefield, reading the god's intent, predicting attacks, and coordinating the twelve in perfect synchronicity. Vaeltherion distorted elements, turning wind, fire, and earth into weaponized void extensions that moved as if alive.
And then… Lucien.
The White as Source
Lucien's eyes glowed pure white. He raised a hand, and the battlefield stilled around him. The narrator whispered over the unfolding scene:
The White is the source of all voids. It births time, space, shadow, chaos, gravity, light, and the threads that bind them. But even the White has a source. A hidden current of energy older than reality itself, lying beyond comprehension. It is the origin from which all creation and destruction flows—a power older than the Outer God, older than even the cycles that erase and recreate.
The Outer God faltered slightly, sensing it. The twelve felt a shift—not just in themselves, but in the fabric of existence. The White was not infinite, but its source hinted at a force far greater.
Lucien raised both hands. The White surged outward, extending invisible threads that connected to each Revenant and Mirrored Six. Energy pulsed through them, amplifying, refining, synchronizing. The twelve were no longer individuals—they were one organism, one unstoppable force, each void a note in the symphony of creation.
The Calm Before the Storm
For a heartbeat, the battlefield was suspended. Rocks, dust, energy, and void twisted in the air as if reality itself were holding its breath. The Outer God regarded them, colossal and indifferent, yet a flicker of something akin to calculation appeared.
Lucien spoke, his voice steady and commanding:
"We are no longer what we were. The White flows through all of us. We are… complete."
And in the distance, the narrator whispered:
The source beyond the White watches. It waits. And soon, it will decide whether the twelve are a threat… or a key to something far greater.
The sky darkened. Shadows bent unnaturally. And the Outer God advanced.